


No one else

by PinaNaponi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Breakup Fic, Fluff and Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Slash, post!breakup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 13:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1390168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinaNaponi/pseuds/PinaNaponi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock and John had finally, finally given in to whatever raging storm of feelings they were having for each other it had been crazy, mad and bound to go wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No one else

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work on AO3 though not my first fanfiction. I am relatively new to writing Sherlock fanfictions, especially since english in not my mother tongue and it's quite a challenge for me (I usually write Harry Potter in german). Please excuse any mistakes as this is unbeta'd (only proof read by me). If you find anything please leave me a comment.
> 
> So this story was more of a plot bunny that suddenly jumped me while I was working on my current Johnlock fic. I had to get this out immediately and to be honest it was pretty violent. But here it is. Hope you enjoy and thanks for any helpful tips.
> 
> (This takes place 13 years after ASiP, John is 49 and Sherlock is 45, just in case you're as neurotic about timelines as I am)

 

Oh God, it had been ages since he'd seen Sherlock. John felt his fists clutch at the sides of his hips. The tall man on the other side of the room was without a doubt his former lover and something in John's stomach burned deep inside at the fact that the years had only contributed to Sherlock's appearance. Age did him unbelievably well which bordered on a wonder considering his lifestyle. Though he really wasn't up to date with Sherlock's life at all. He had never asked Greg about him and his friend had elegantly accepted this and never mentioned him to John. According to the tabloids Sherlock had finally given in to Mycroft two years ago and taken a position in the MI6, though mainly desk work, no more undercover missions, instead the occasional formal gathering where photos of him were taken and printed in newspapers that John deliberately had tried to not look at too much.

Christ, he looked good. John swallowed dryly and tried to concentrate on the conversation he was supposed to be having with his colleague. He nodded absentmindly at something he said and looked back to Sherlock. His hair was barely shorter and he used to wear it more combed to the back now. John thought he missed the curls around his temples, however the new look wasn't to his disadvantage. Soft wrinkles around the eyes lined Sherlock's facial features, rather enhancing than compromising the prominent cheekbones. He wore a tailored three-piece suit which was much more conservative compared to his former style of dress but made him look even more posh and entrancing. God, he was still so gone for that man, it was embarassing.

John tried to remember how long exactly it had been since he'd last seen Sherlock.They'd split up seven years ago and John had only seen him once about two years after. Phew, that meant five years. That was a bloody long time. He noticed how his heart's pace had quickened up and shook his head in disapproval of himself. He was sure Sherlock hadn't felt the need to keep track of what was going on in John's life though he would most likely be able to deduce it the very second he saw him. He'd better take care not to let that happen, he thought.

When Sherlock and John had finally, finally given in to whatever raging storm of feelings they were having for each other it had been crazy, mad and bound to go wrong. They'd known each other for five years then, been through so many cases together, got a grip of each other again after the-time-they-never-spoke-about when John had believed Sherlock to be dead for almost two years. As soon as he'd returned they both knew it was going to happen. They'd promised themselves to never leave each other again. Ha, as if. It lasted a full year before everything just went down the drain and utterly, utterly wrong. It had been too much, for both of them. The sheer amount and power of their feelings for each other, Sherlock's incompetence at expressing them, John's temper when they fought, the secrecy in public, their lack of understanding for each other in certain situations, it all had just added up to some lethal concoction and ended in a giant devastating explosion.

John had moved out without even getting another look from Sherlock. All he'd done had been experimenting in the kitchen, ignoring John moving boxes out of the flat they had shared for six years. The "Right then." John had muttered before he closed the door of the flat for the last time had been the last words that had been spoken between them. The next time he'd seen him was in a restaurant where John had taken his current boyfriend. They were dining when John saw a tall, dark-curled man stepping into the etablissement, greeting someone on a table to his right and then sitting down. It had been approximately three seconds and John was sure Sherlock hadn't seen him.

And now here he was, at the same bloody reception as Sherlock Holmes and all he could think about was the quickest way out. Retreat, now. He mumbled some faint excuse about the gent's to his colleague and turned round to look for the quickest way to the cloakroom. John positioned his shoulders, straightened his tie and walked. Precisely 27 steps until he reached the desired destination. He fumbled in his pockets for the receipt for his coat when something sting him. Oh God. He would always recognise this. His gaze on him. It was like being on fire, always had been. Slowly he turned round.

He looked even better from close. His eyes hadn't lost any of that bright, clever spark, the rest of his face was still a piece of obscene art. Oh God, oh God. They locked their eyes for a second before John broke away. "Sherlock." he said. Christ, he felt so stupid, so uttely incompetent and small and downright awkward. And then his knees almost buckled when he heard the soft baritone. "John." was all he said and it was really too much for John. Man up, Watson! He told himself. There wasn't any hole just popping out where he could disappear into so he would just do this here, now. Posture, you've invaded fucking Afghanistan and got shot at least three times in your life, you will be able to talk to your ex-boyfriend, won't you?

"Didn't know you were here." he said and angled his face upwards, bringing his eyes back to Sherlock's face. He couldn't quite read the expression on his face when he answered. "Mycroft had a pretty good hand at persuasing me though it was a little of short-notice. I wouldn't have come otherwise." his voice sounded composed but a little rough. John felt the words wrapping around him like a safety blanket. He had always felt like this back then. "I see. Well, I was just leaving, had a pretty busy day." he tried a brief smile and finally got hold of his receipt. "I'm sorry." Sherlock said and John found himself staring at him. "I should've know you'd be here, it's a charity reception at Bart's in the end. Stay, I was about to leave anyway."

John swallowed at Sherlock's considerate words. He had even apologised for something he hadn't even had influence on. "No, really. You have every right to be here, you've worked here longer than I have in the end..." John tried and Sherlock actually smirked at him. "...and I wasn't leaving because of you. Just enjoy your evening, I have to get up early tomorrow anyway and, oh god why am I telling you this?" John sighed. "Sorry, this is really stupid." He shrugged helplessly at Sherlock. Another smirk, then the man just strode past him and handed his receipt to the cloakroom worker. "I'll walk you home." he said. John just stared at him. Why the heck did Sherlock even knew where he lived nowadays? Donning his coat, a rather sleek model but with prominent lapels, he looked at John intelligibly. "Problem?" John could but shake his head and then got his coat.

His head was literally throbbing when he stepped out of St. Bart's into the brisk april evening air. Sherlock followed at his heels. Oh God, they would have to talk. John had never been a smoker but somehow he felt he would very much like to smoke a cigarette right now. They walked in silence until they reached the next traffic light and it was getting awkward. John drew in a deep breath. "So, how have you been doing?" he asked and knew that Sherlock was rolling his eyes at the profanity of the question. "The work is rather demanding, especially since my brother never ceases to keep an eye on me like the mother hen he is. I wonder if I have to turn fifty before he believes me able to handle things for myself."

John heard the humor in his voice and was very thankful that Sherlock had decided on being agreeable and chose a light, easy answer. "You better hope it's before he retires." John shot back. "Ah," Sherlock muttered, "I'm afraid he plans on outliving us all and eventually being the Queen of the world one day." the amusement in Sherlock's voice was barely concealed now. John found his lips stretching in a little smile. So they still worked like this. They've been like this from the start, thirteen years ago, when they had left that crime scene giggling hysterically though John had just killed a man and Sherlock almost himself. It scared John but there was still this tiny feeling of comfort in his chest.

"So, how is...Richard?" Sherlock asked and John tried not to think about why Sherlock was actually informed about his love life. Though working for the MI6 surely made Sherlock's access to any kind of information even more easy than before. John cleared his throat. "We split up a while ago." He didn't dare to look at the man walking next to him. Didn't want him to be able to see, deducing everything out of his face.

"Ah." Sherlock made. John gritted his teeth when he said "Don't tell me you didn't know. Surely you were able to deduce everything you need to know during the first five seconds of our encounter." he had really tried to not sound frustrated but wasn't sure about his success. Sherlock was silent for a while. "Well, it's not really going that well for me either." he said and John almost tripped and looked up. "So, um, are you currently seeing someone?" he asked as he suspected Sherlock's statement implied a complicated relationship. Something in Sherlock's eyes shifted and he looked away. Wrong question then, John bit on his tongue. Bugger. They were just round the corner of his flat, at least.

"No." Sherlock said, his voice somehow very silent. "I'm not seeing someone." John licked his lips nervously. He didn't really want to talk about Sherlock's love life, did he? Nope, not at all. Better not.

"I haven't been seeing anyone." the voice said, now even more quiet.

"What?" John rasped irritated.

"John, really!I said I haven't been seeing anyone. At all. Since you left." a swirl of coat and scarf, Sherlock stood and turned to face him. His eyes weren't exactly bewildered but John could see something was seething behind them.

Something dawned on him. He felt like he could never breathe again. Something heavy was clutching at his throat and chest, tryring to wrestle him down. "Why?" the word left him almost fainting, as if all of his strength had been needed to press it out. They stood on the pavement, 25 yards before John't flat, stopped dead in their tracks, gazes locked. John saw the agony behing the facade of Sherlock's face. He just knew him too well.

"John..." a breath escaped Sherlock's mouth "...I can't. Sorry." His voice was barely audible over the throbbing in John's head. It was now or never, he thought. He really had nothing to lose and for some reason the other man wasnt behaving like the usual arrogant git he was and he should just open his bloody mouth and- "Sherlock. You know. I find it difficult, this...this sort of stuff. I know you do, too." He breathed heavily, sensing the panic attack clinging to his neck, trying to work it's way inside of him. "Please tell me." he pressed out. His left hand clutched so hard his knuckles whitened and he felt his fingernails digging into his palm. He wasn't prepared for what followed.

"Please be aware that I do not wish to discuss my love life with you John, as you have long ago decided that you'd rather not have anything to do with it. Therefore I don't see why you should be interested in such things and I promise I won't inflict polite remorse on you because the poor idiot Sherlock decided to rather not have a love life at all after that perfect fiasko. So.don't.mind." The last words had been but a hiss through grittet teeth, accompanied by ice cold eyes that bore into John's.

Oh God. Oh God, oh God. Memories rushed over John, memories of "alone is what protects me" and "caring is not an advantage". "Christ Sherlock...you.." John stuttered "are you telling me that you just shut it all down again because it hurt? You just shut it all away again because you were to bloody pride to come after me?" his right hand flew to his forehead, applying little pressure in the hope of making that goddamn throbbing at least a bit better. "You utter...do you even realise? Why didn't you bloody say something? Anything? Jesus Sherlock, I thought you didn't care. You didn't even say goodbye. Fuck!" He needed a drink.

The other man looked at him suspiciously and John's chest pulled violently at the realisation that they had both ruined their lifes because of a misunderstanding. Seven long years apart without a word, his fiftieth birthday was approaching. He suddenly felt very old. Alright. He would just soldier through this. He had to. There really was nothing to lose.

"Sherlock. We'll talk about this. Now. Come." he ordered and walked on, fumbling the keys to the front door out of his coat pocket. The faint sound of footsteps followed him when he jogged the six steps to his door and unlocked it. He held the door open and didn't look at Sherlock's tall, dark figure as he hesistantly entered and strode into the hall past him. "On the left, living room." John said, not bothering with hanging up his coat or toeing off his shoes. He got two glasses and the carafe with whiskey from the sideboard and slumped onto the sofa.

With precision John poured them two glasses and held one in the direction of Sherlock who leaned against the doorframe, watching him through eyes that were mere slits. "Sit." John sighed and made a gesture with the glass. Slowly Sherlock moved over, opening his coat and unfastening his scarf before he cautiously sat down on the other end of John's comfortable sofa. Their fingers didn't touch when he took the glass from John's hand. He stirred the whiskey in it for a bit before he took a mouthful. "I apologize." Sherlock said, his voice low but steady. John huffed. This was ridiculous.

"Okay Sherlock, just this once, I will tell you what I think is going on or was going on and you will sit there and listen and tell me how much I got correct, alright?" It really was a long shot but Sherlock nodded, his body still tense. John took a deep breath, then a sip of his drink.

"Alright. So I can't even remember what exactly it was that made me go in the end. Most likely the whole "keeping this a secret"-issue. Just one of our fights, you trowing a hissy fit, I really don't know anymore. I remember saying that I was fed up with you and your episodes. And I remember you saying I could bloody well leave then. Which, somehow, is exactly what I did – no, shut up!" John hissed as he saw Sherlock opening his mouth.

"I'm not done. Now the subtext. Believe me, I had enough time to think this over and over and I just realized it has been even worse that what I figured out was the reason. So you didn't like the secrecy right? You didn't want to hide. You somehow tricked yourself in thinking I wouldn't like people to know I was with you, right? Maybe you even thought I was ashamed because you're such an insufferable prat and who would admit to being the great freak's pet anyway, right? So when I said I was fed up with your tantrums and laziness and irritability you thought I really meant it. You told yourself you had seen it coming and you would really just save everyone the time if you showed me out. Right?" John's voise had risen during the last sentence and he felt the anger burning in his veins. Sherlock just stared at him, dead-pan. "Right?" he hissed again and Sherlock slowly nodded. "Great. Did I miss anything then?" he weakly added.

Sherlock's brows furrowed and he shook his head.

"Alright, now listen, here's my side of the story. Oh God. When we got together I was scared shitless. That you'd lose interest in me, just how you lose interest in everything after a while. Boring, boring, heard that often enough. I also had issues with being gay or bi or whatever it is for quite a while, I was confused because I fell in love with a man. I did not blame you, don't look at me like this. Thus I really wasn't keen on telling everyone and their grandmother about us. I felt it was too fragile, I was so afraid it would break what we had. You were all crude and annoying about this and I felt you didn't care about my feelings. So when you said I should just leave it was proof that you didn't really care about me. And then I left. It was horrible. So if everything I said is so far correct we have both been complete and utter arseholes with a very disfunctional attempt at communication. And I have proceeded in being an arsehole to everyone I dated after you. Even Richard. I always tried to not get too attached, I couldn't let them as close as I had let you.The trust issue-thing seems to have become the fucking yoke of my life. Now you."

John choked. This had very likely been the most emotional speech he'd ever held. God, he really hated this and he was so _bad_ at it. Also he felt like he would be sick.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I hate to admit it but Mycroft once said some day we would realise how alike you and I were. I'm afraid he was very right on this." John looked up in his pale face. He was right. They both had severe trust issues, with the difference that John would eventually feel loney enough to give it another try. Sherlock instead had chosen his well known path of complete isolation. And their pride really was their biggest obstacle. John knew Sherlock was proud and he had eventually gotten fed up with always swallowing his own pride to fix things. So he waited for Sherlock to back down but he wouldn't because usually John would and everything had just become a horrible mess then.

John groaned. "I can't believe I'm still pining over you because of _this_." he swallowed the remaining content of his glass in one go. Sherlock made a strangled sound in his throat and John didn't have time to process what was going on when he suddenly had a lapful of six inch former consulting detective straddling him. His back tensed and he tried to make a protesting noise but it was swallowed by soft lips on his and something hot and roaring that built inside of him. Oh God, this wasn't happening. This couldn't be real but oh, Sherlock smelt so good and his lips were soft and the kiss was passionate and hesistant and perfect.

Everything seemed to just momentarily pause as they fumbled at buttons and kissed, bit, licked warm and soft skin, stroking, caressing, their hands everywhere at once. Seven years. This was madness. Sherlock moaned when he pressed his crotch to John's thigh, finally gotten rid of the tie his fingers worked the buttons of John's shirt. When wet lips tended to his chest and nipple John hissed and finally caught up with his head. "Hnn, Sherlock, stop...please..." but Sherlock ignored him, holding him, kissing him, sucking at the soft flesh on his throat, breathing down his ear, "Sherl...let go....ugh" was all he managed when a long, slender index finger was placed on his lips. He automatically hushed.

Sherlock's voice was hoarse when he spoke, very gentle against his left ear, one arm wrapped around John's back, the other caressing whatever it found. "John. I don't intend to ever let go of you again. So if you really want me to stop, make up your mind now or shut up and let me fuck you." That really shouldn't have sounded how it did, sending sensations through John's whole body, comforting, sweet and really, really arousing. Oh God, John's point had been lost from the very beginning. Surrender really was his only choice. John licked his lips. "But this time we talk. And we will be honest with each other. And if it helps I will actually get "Property of SH" tattooed on my butt, what do you think?"

They both giggled before they came together for another kiss, this time slower, sweeter, and thorough. And then they made love, desperately clinging to each other, exchanging kisses and looks, marking each other with hickeys and bite marks, gently, passionate, and when Sherlock stifled a loud moan and came into him, buried deep, John shortly followed, his fingers tangled in Sherlock's hair and cupping his chin and everything at once. And when they pressed open mouthed kisses on each other, panting, breathing the other's air, they both knew that there would be no one else. Ever.


End file.
